


Mother Doesn't Know Best

by starraya



Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: It’s been over 25 years since Bernie and Serena vowed never to see each other again and for over 25 years they’ve succeeded. They think it’s for the best.Their children, however, disagree and decide to play cupid.The Parent Trap AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean I already have an AU series and a Last Tango AU and a gangsters AU and should go and write them instead of this. Blasphemy!
> 
> This will be a three or four parter. It is based on the film The Parent Trap and will borrow some dialogue and scenes from it, but I've done a lot of tweaking.

Elinor knows something’s wrong. Her mum was meant to be going out with some people from work – a fiftieth birthday or something – but instead she opted out. Told Elinor that she’d much rather prefer a girly night in with her daughter. Elinor’s sure she’s never heard her mother use the words ‘girly night in’ ever before. That’s not the only thing that’s off. Serena has arranged for Jason to spend the night at Alan’s. She’s never done that before – no matter how much these days she goes on about them both deserving her time equally and how important it is to spend quality time with each of them alone.

A lot has changed over the past year. Elinor feels closer to her mother than ever. And she’s glad of it. It’s nice. Really nice. Before she felt like she was always playing second fiddle in her mother’s life. Last to know about her stepping down from Deputy CEO. Last to know about Jason moving in with her. Last to know about her mother’s bisexuality.

Elinor felt that there was always something more important than her in her mother’s life. That she was always a second thought. That, of course, wasn’t always strictly the case. It wasn’t like she made much of an effort to visit her mother regularly after getting caught in the whirlwind of University. It wasn’t like she always picked up her phone when Serena called her, more often than not sloshed at a club. It was she who dropped out – last minute – from the holiday in Italy, knowing she couldn’t last a week without . . . well . . .

She thought that was all behind them – or at least it is for her – but as the night wears on Elinor starts to fear that her mother is suspicious that it isn’t.

Her mother has cooked Elinor’s favourite dish, lasagne, from scratch. Even baked a cake for after. What’s the most troubling is that she’s forgone any red wine, knowing Elinor doesn’t like it. Instead, she has poured them both white. Sipped it – without a word – as if it were shiraz.

After they finish the lasagne and Serena rises to clear the plates away, swatting Elinor’s hand away when she offers to help, Elinor braces herself for the inevitable. It comes when they are both sat on the sofa, tucking into chocolate cake and Serena takes Elinor’s hand.

“You know, darling,” Serena finally finds the words as she toys with pendant of her necklace with one hand, “you can tell me anything.”

Elinor struggles to swallow a mouthful of cake, suddenly stodgy in her throat. “I know.”

“And you know I’m always here for you, if you need me.”

Elinor nods. Shoves another spoonful of cake into her mouth, finishing her bowl. “Can I get another slice?”

“If you want.” Serena sighs – frustrated at her daughter’s silence all night – but let’s go of her daughter’s hand.

“Elle,” she says, when she returns to the living room. “I know something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“If you’re in trouble again, please, I’d rather you tell me than keep it a secret. I’m not angry or disappointed, I just want to help you.” Serena stands up off the sofa, moves towards her daughter.

“Everything’s fine, really, mum. I promise. I haven’t touched –”

“I can’t imagine how hard it is, or what it’s like. But I am proud of you, I was proud of you before and I’m still proud of you now.” And Serena means it. With all her heart. Knows just how much she would have given to hear her own mother tell her such, even when Serena screwed up, even stupid, timy screws up, for instance getting that stupid B instead of A in maths, it hardly mattered in the long run but it marred the rest of Serena’s straight A’s, it meant her mother’s brow crinkling up in what Serena knew was disappointment when Adrienne read her results. It meant not one word of congratulations.

“Mum,” Elinor voice grows firm. “I’m not back on the drugs.”

“Elinor I’m not a fool. I’ve seen you hang up the phone whenever I’m near. I know you sneak out to places and don’t tell me where. You’re an adult, I don’t need to know you’re every movement, but you’re hiding something from me.”

“I’m . . .”

“Please don’t lie to me.” Serena’s voice is soft, pleading almost. Elinor could do anything and Serena would forgive her, be at her side within a second, but the hurt at her daughter lying flat-out to her face will still dig deep. There were too many lies in her relationship with Edward. She doesn’t want the same mistrust in her relationship with her daughter.

“Mum, you have to believe me, I’m clean."

“Then the calls? The secret outings?”

Elinor bites her lips. She knows she’ll have to admit the truth. That she has no choice. She can’t have her mum think that she’s lied to her about a relapse.

“Ellie, if you don’t tell me I’m going to call Edward. We’re going to have face this as a family. We’ll have to cancel the holiday for now. With two days’ notice, I’ll doubt –”

“No,” Elinor stops her mum. “Please, you’ve been looking forward to –”

“It can wait. You’re priority.” Serena reaches for her phone.

“But that it’s,” Elinor blurts. “That’s what this is about. The calls. The secrecy.”

“What do you mean?”

Elinor takes a deep breath, steels herself. “Mum, I think you should sit down.”

-

_Six weeks earlier_

It only takes one day volunteering at the homeless shelter for Elinor and Charlotte to realise the connection.

“So,” Elinor asks, as they are chopping vegetables side by side in the kitchen, “you new here too?”

“How could you tell?”

“You look like you have about the same clue as to what to do as me.”

Charlotte chuckles at that. “Guilty as charged.”

A silence descends. Elinor thinks the other woman might ask why she’s here. She is grateful when she doesn’t, but explains how her brother, Cameron, normally volunteers at the shelter. Charlotte saw how much he enjoyed it, making a difference – as cliché as it sounded – and she wanted to do the same. Make some use of her time now university has finished for the summer.

“Is your brother not here today?”

“Busy studying,” Charlotte replies, affection flooding her voice. “The silly fool decided to re-join medical school. Between retaking exams and placements he’s barely got time to sleep. But it’s what he wants to do.” She smiles, thinking of her older brother and his effort to get back on the straight and narrow, stop the partying, stop the drinking.

“Anyway,” Charlotte turns to slide a chopping board of vegetables with a knife into a pot. “Mum and Dad were practically jumping jacks when he told them his decision.”

“Proud parents?”

“More than proud. They’ve both doctors.”

“And I suppose they wanted you to follow in their footsteps as well?”

Charlotte nods. “At first – I mean, there weren’t pushy parents, but I learnt a lot more than basic first aid training as a kid – and I took all the right A-levels, sciences, maths but there were just two problems.”

“Yeah?”

“Medicine just isn’t my thing. And I really can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“Just a tiny hitch,” Elinor smiles. She feels a sense of instant connection with the girl. But it’s no wonder. “My mother, she’s a surgeon too. Works at Holby City hospital. Dad’s a doctor too. Works as a locum.”

“No way,” Charlotte stops cutting a carrot. She recognises the name of the hospital of course, living just outside of the city. Her mother was nearly taken to Holby after surgery, but flown to St James’ instead at the last minute.

Elinor sighs. “I think I was a bit of a disappointment in the career department too. My mother so desperately wanted a daughter in STEM.”

“Are you at uni? What are you doing?"

“Media studies. She won’t ever say it, but I know my mum thinks it won’t get me nowhere.”

“You never know. One day you might end up on the production for a medical soap or something.”

“Certainly, one way of working in a hospital,” Elinor agrees. “What do you study?”

“Engineering. Afterwards, fingers crossed, I want to join the navy.”

“The navy?”

“My grandfather was a Colonel in the British army. My mother, she’s not only a trauma surgeon, she’s a Major. Royal Army Medical Corps.”

“Wow.”

“I haven’t told her. Her or dad. About the navy.”

“Why?” Elinor knows she’s nosing around, but she can’t help it.

“It’s . . . complicated,” Charlotte murmurs. “Mum might be pleased, but dad . . .  I think he’s spent enough years worrying about mum. Doesn’t want me in the forces too.”

“It’s your choice though. You should tell them.”

“What an actual proper sit-down conversation about serious life stuff with my parents?”

“Scary shit, I know.”

“Too right.”

“And,” Charlotte feels all the emotion of the past month, the shock and anger, spill out of her. “My family don’t really do talking anymore. More shouting.”

“I know the feeling,” Elinor empathises.

Charlotte doesn’t know why – even if they are a similar age with parents in medicine – but she feels like she’s known Elinor for far more than a morning. Feels like the girl will understand if she tells her what she hasn’t been able to confide in anyone about.

“My parents,” Charlotte admits. “They’re divorcing.”

“Another woman?” Elinor pries without a thought this time, thinking of her dad and his string of affairs.

“You could say that.”

-

“So, did you always know?” Cam draws a finger around the rim of him empty cup. “Sorry,” he blurts, realising how intrusive the question is, but Bernie seems to understand.

“It’s okay,” she assures, seeing his nervousness. She’s equally nervous and sips her coffee, a pretext for giving her a few more seconds to steel herself. It’s hard, harder than she expected, opening up to her son. That isn’t to say that she doesn’t relish these weekly meet-ups with her son at the local coffee shop. Her heart clenches with love when she thinks how her son makes time for her every week, despite his hectic schedule. Charlotte still won’t talk to her and Bernie can’t blame her. She deserves it. She was the one who destroyed this family, blew it apart and severed the already thin ties of her relationships with her children.

Luckily, Cameron wants to rebuild theirs. On their first meeting, he asked about Alex. Bernie was caught-off guard, tripping up over her words, shame filling her body as she told Cam about the affair. When it had started. How long it had lasted. She told him though, because he told her he wasn’t angry. That he only wanted to know the truth. That it would have better, for all them, if Bernie had just told the truth.

The topic of Alex passed quickly, quicker than Bernie thought. It wasn’t Alex Cameron was interested in. It was her mother, the woman who disappeared for months at a time from the family home to warzones when he was a child, who never stayed for as long as his young heart wished and who made him fight back tears that only feel after she left.

The first time in the coffee shop, Cam had smiled and reached for Bernie’s hand.

“I just want to get to know you. The real you.”

Bernie knows that his questions today about her attraction to the same sex are simply him trying to get to know her.

“I suppose . . . it was always there. I just never faced up to it, never saw myself as a . . . even when I – “

“Even when?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“Did you know when you married dad?”

“Cam . . . I . . . “

“No, it’s alright, sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to lie to him. I never – when I married him I thought it was what I wanted it, I thought I could be happy. I thought we would be happy,” Bernie blinks back tears as she thinks back to how hard she convinced herself into marrying Marcus, into thinking it was enough. “I thought I loved him. But I didn’t, not in that way.”

Cam feels as if he’s crossed a boundary. Can see how difficult the questions are for his mother. He tries to change the tone.

“Before dad, was there no one else? No, I don’t know, university fling?”

Bernie shakes her head. She’s vowed never to lie to her children again and she hasn’t, technically. There was someone, but it wasn’t a fling. It was never a fling. Not to Bernie

“No-one else. Anyway,” Bernie’s shifts the attention onto Cameron. “What about you? Got your eye on any girl?”

Cam brushes off the question, answers in the negative, but Bernie knows when he’s fibbing to save his blushes. How he scratches the tip of his ear.

Unbeknownst to Bernie, she just did the same too.

-

It’s Cameron’s birthday. The first time Bernie, Marcus and the kids have met up since the start of the divorce proceedings. Her and Marcus have agreed to keep it civil. The stalemate between them is gradually easing, the air between them is still stilted and uncomfortable but they have moved beyond pettiness or malice.

It seems, however, that Charlotte has not.

She pulls out the photo album of her and Cameron’s childhood years. It’s somewhat of a tradition now on birthdays, to tease the birthday girl or boy with photos of them as toddlers, running around the garden starkers or sitting wailing in a highchair with red sauce smeared around their face, more spaghetti thrown on the floor than eaten.

Charlotte points at a photo of Cameron – eight years old – after he decided it was a good idea to cut his own hair. It was not. His curly, brown locks are missing significant tufts.

“I’m showing this to whoever you bring home,” Charlotte jokes, before calling back to her dad. “What to think, will it scare them off? God, you flipped, dad. Remember we had to . . . “

Bernie knows exactly why Charlotte is doing this. Why she hasn’t uttered a word, pleasant or otherwise, to her mother all evening. Because she hasn’t needed to. She’s found another way to lash out at Bernie – flicking through photographs Bernie is hardly in, birthdays and Christmases Bernie missed out on  and all those little sweet and silly moments that are as precious as traditional milestones such as the haircut fiasco that she can’t nostalgically recall like Marcus or Charlotte. Because Bernie simply wasn’t there.

Cameron plays along with his sister’s teasing for a while, but he’s worked out the ulterior motive too. Bernie hasn’t said anything, but he knows it’s hurting her. So, he finds a way to get the scrapbook, snatches it off Charlotte playfully and turns to a picture he knows Charlotte, for some reason, can’t stand – her bandaged up like a mummy due to a nine-year-old Cameron’s attempts at playing doctor – and knows Charlotte is grateful when he finally shuts the book. He complains how he’s late for going out to meet his mates for a drink and better get going.

When he goes upstairs to grab a jacket, he puts the photo album away in the office that is never used as an office, but more as an odd and ends room. He opens the wardrobe and slots it on the top shelf. He runs a fingertip over the other albums there – one is marked ‘1970/80s’, the years when his mother went to school and Uni – and curiosity wins him over.

He opens the photo album. Smiles at the first picture. His mother – fourteen, fifteen? – amongst rows of other girls in shorts and t-shirts. All of them have muddied shins and football boots. She is in the centre, smiling her usual thin-lipped smile. There is a trophy in her hands. She’s the captain, Cameron realises.

He finds another photo of girls in uniform, standing again in rows, but no smiles on their faces. Each wears a blazer for St Winfred’s school for girls and a pleated, tartan skirt. Cam chuckles at how awkward his mother looks, nothing like in the photo before. This time his mother stands next to the girl in the centre of the photo. Dark-haired with a fringe as terrible as his mother’s is now. Cam can just about discern a shiny badge on her blazer that he guesses marks her as head-girl. Frustratingly, there is no year for the photograph or list of names for the class of girls.

When he carefully slides out the photo and turns it over, he’s disappointed to find there’s no information on the back. He begins to do the same, for all the photos, as he flicks through the album. But his mother has not marked any of them. He finds the dark-haired girl again. Her and her mum are squashed together on a sofa amongst other teenagers, their thighs and arms touching. There have bottles in their hand and it looks like a house party. His mother is older - nineteen, twenty - meaning that she either she and the dark-haired girl went to the same uni or at least kept in good touch after school. His mother is the only one not looking at the camera, instead she is looking at the dark-haired girl next to her.

In this photo she now has a perm, but it is his mother’s appearance that most surprises Cam. His mother is in a leather mini-skirt, fishnet tights and an oversized, leopard-print jacket. It even has shoulder pads. He knew his mother grew up in the eighties, but seeing it like this, well, it’s quite amusing. His mother’s hair is long and wild. Puffed up at the top, loose curls at the bottom. Her hair isn’t the worst in the picture – that goes to the man sat beside her with the mullet – but her eye make-up is something. It is very dark and there is a lot of it. More than he has ever seen his mum wear.

Cameron turns the page, skimming photos quicker than he wants, unable to tamp down the sense of guilty intrusion inside of him. He expects more atrocious fashion choices, but is surprised when he reaches the last photo – a crumpled polaroid - in more ways than one. It is dimly lit. A restaurant by the looks of it. There is a bottle of wine and glasses on a white tablecloth. Plates of pasta. At the back, Cameron spots a sign – _Alberto’s_ – and a little Italian flag on the wall.

His mother sits opposite the dark-haired girl. For a meal out, neither of them are dressed up, just jeans and t-shirts, no make-up, no jewellery, except one piece, a necklace around both their necks. Matching pendants. Cameron has never seen his mother wear the necklace and he thinks he knows why. Because the woman and his mum are smiling at the camera, wide and bright, despite the dark circles under their eyes Cameron knows so well as a medical-student. They look . . . happy. Truly happy.

Cam studies every detail of the photo. Notices how their hands are on the table, millimetres from touching. As if yearning to.

At the top of the polaroid, in the middle, there is a tear – not very long – as if someone tried to rip the photo up, but couldn’t bring themselves to.

Cameron handles this photo more gently than any of the others. When he turns it over, this time there is a neatly-inscribed message on the back and it’s not his mother’s handwriting.

_My dear Berenice,_

_The wine was medicinal, but I still blame you for the hangover._

_Write to me. And remember. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do._

_S. X._

-

Cam hasn’t the courage to admit that’s he trawled through his mother’s photos and ask her about the mystery woman. So, he doesn’t. Thinks he will never know who she is. Who she was to Bernie, even if has his thoughts.

A few weeks later he manages to find a spare Saturday to volunteer at the homeless shelter with Charlotte.

“You can finally meet Ellie,” she enthuses as they step through the doors. Charlotte has told him bits and pieces about the girl, how she went to the same boarding school Charlotte refused to attend even though Bernie wanted her too, how she lives in Holby, how her parents are also doctors, how they are divorced – like their own. When the siblings reach the kitchen, Charlotte rushes to her friend. Introduces her to her brother.

Cam stands open-mouthed. It can’t be, can it?

The girl is dark-haired – no fringe or perm – but has the same eyes, the same nose, the same cleft in her chin as the woman in his mother’s photographs.

_-_

“ _What_?” Serena can hardly believe what her daughter has told her. Elinor went upstairs to retrieve the plane tickets for Friday and then placed them in her mother’s lap. Explained how the holiday to Italy was more than just a mother-daughter trip to a spa.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” Elinor explains. “A nice one.”

“How do you even know who Bernie Wolfe is?”

“I met her daughter, at the homeless shelter. She and her brother volunteer there.”

“Her daughter? She had another child?” Serena asks, clearly bewildered.

“Yeah, Charlotte and Cameron. They . . . we. . . figured it all out.”

“It?”

“You and Bernie, we know you were close friends. Went to the same school, same uni. We knew you haven’t seen each other in years. Lost contact when Bernie joined the army. We wanted . . .” Elinor stumbles over her words as she sees something dark cloud her mother’s face.

“So, you have been lying to me,” Serena stands up, thrusts the plane tickets back in her daughter’s hands. “Plotting behind my back.”

“Yes, but only because it was something I’d thought you like. I wanted to something nice for you. This past year, you’ve cared for me. Before that, you cared for Nan. I just wanted to do something for you.”

Serena’s manages a smile at her daughter and her good intentions, but the knot in her stomach tightens.

“I just wished you’d told me.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise. We wanted – “

“Did you spare any thought that the reason I haven’t seen her is because I didn’t want to?"

“You were best friends.” Elinor says. “What could you have possibly fallen out over that was so bad?”

She knows her mother won’t have an answer for this, not without revealing more of what she has buried deep. That they were more than best friends.

“Oh, come on, Mum,” Elinor implores. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of what it would be like to see her again, after all these years?”

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point.” Elinor tries to push the tickets back in Serena’s hands, but Serena raises her hands and steps back.

“Tell me, honestly," Elinor persists, "that you’ve never, not for one moment thought about catching up with Bernie. Getting to know her again. Now you can.” 

“Was.” Serena clarifies, sinking down on the sofa. “Me . . . her . . . it’s all in the past.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Elinor says, pleased when her mother’s eyes stare into the distance. Elinor knows her mother’s remembering her. Remembering Bernie.

Elinor slips the tickets into her mother’s hands. “Please,” she says before leaving the room and leaving her mother to her memories. “Just think about it.”

Later, Serena searches for a photo album and finds a picture. Turns it over and reads.

 _McKinnie_.

_I only said we go out for a bite to eat after a long day. One drink._

_And you could have ordered by the glass._

_B. X._

Serena feels something catch in her throat. _One drink._ That’s all Bernie ever wanted, Serena thinks. Nothing more. Serena thumbs the creased polaroid of her and Bernie erupting into laughter in the Italian restaurant. Can still hear – pitch perfect – Bernie’s glorious laugh.

A tear slips from Serena's eye. She bites back a laugh at her daughter’s words. _Just think about it._ Think about seeing Berenice bloody Wolfe again.

For 25 years she’s thought about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your encouraging comments. I think this fic might be longer than I planned.

Operation get their mums to pal with their gal again is simple, on paper:

  1. Get their mums in the same location – preferably romantic and somewhere that will recall strong memories
  2. Get their mums to meet
  3. Get their mums to spend time alone together
  4. Leave playing Cupid . . . well up to Cupid



The operation is simple. So, of course, it’s complicated as hell.

-

At their coffee meet up the week after Cameron’s birthday, Cameron apologises to his mum for Charlotte’s behaviour.

“She’ll come ‘round,” he says. “She’s just stubborn.”

 “Can’t think where she gets that from,” Bernie responds. “She’s hurting, I know, but I just wish she’d let me explain. But she won’t talk. I mean, she was never but of a talker, but . . ."

Cam smiles. “Can’t think where –”

“Oi,” Bernie cuts him off, but there is a sparkle in her eyes at her son’s cheek.

There is a sparkle in Cam’s eyes as well, has been for a few weeks now and Bernie thinks she knows why. “What’s she like then? This girl you’ve got your eye?”

“I never said . . .”

“You didn’t have to. I know when there’s . . . girl business.”

“Girl business?”

“I think it is my area of speciality.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how gaydar works mum.”

“Whatever,” Bernie sips her coffee. “So, what’s her name?”

Cam squirms in his seat. Keeps silent.

“Oh, a woman of mystery,” Bernie teases.

Cam fixates on his cup of coffee – tries to put a colour to the exact shade of brown. “Mum,” Cam doesn’t look up. Now or never, he thinks. “When do you know you’re in love?”

It is Bernie’s turn to stare at her coffee. “Oh . . . erm . .  well . . .”

“Or, at least, how do you know you’re falling . . . that way?”

“I suppose,” Bernie starts, knowing her son wouldn’t have asked such an . . . open . . . question if he wasn’t struggling with his feelings. “I suppose it’s when you know there’s no way back, and even if there was, you wouldn’t want to take it.”

“What if it’s just an infatuation? Something exciting and new, but something that won’t last. What's the difference?

Bernie leans back in her chair. Thinks about the two women she's  loved – both in different ways.

“Bravery,” she says, surprising herself – when has she ever been anything more than a coward? “Don’t think it will be forever, don’t want forever and don’t hide from the fact it won’t last. You’re just hurt more people if you pretend. Eventually, never matter how you hard you try, someone will get hurt. But it’s not a matter of wondering if it’s worth the risk, that’s foolishness not bravery. It’s limiting the damage ahead of time." Bernis shrugs. "Sometimes love is accepting that it won’t work.”

“Cut your losses and run, you mean, when it gets too tough?” Cameron asks, puzzled – not least at the fact he’s pretty sure his mother’s word count about love – compared to any subject they’ve discussed over coffee – is a new record. 

“It's sparing you both any future hurt," Bernie corrects him – even if she doesn’t believe her own words, she’s trying to convince herself of them.

“Like damage control?” Cameron passes his empty cup of coffee from hand to hand. “That’s a depressing way of looking at love.”

“True though.”

Cam watches his mother’s gaze drift to the window, but settle on nothing outside. He wonders if she’s remembering the girl in the photographs. Cam takes his chance.

“And Alex?” He asks as if his mother has not been talking about her. “You told me you loved her."

“I did.”

“But not now?”

Bernie’s head shakes, minutely. Her and Alex – it was new and exciting. Exhilarating. Heady rushes of passion after scraping death for the hundredth time, kissing frantically like you couldn’t spare breath, like it could be your last. Sex was release – for a few moments – from everything around them. All the gunfire and screams disappeared at the feel of each other’s skin. A temporary illusion. All the thrill – the thrill of survival, the thrill of a shared secret, the thrill of being fucking _gloriously_ alive as you clenched around your lover’s fingers and shook in their arms – it faded quickly. Never lasted through the day. Wasn’t substantial enough. Alex and her relationship taught Bernie that her marriage was a façade. It was never enough, she was never truly herself or truly happy, but it didn’t teach her a new kind of happiness. A lasting kind with strong foundations. Her and Alex’s affair was built on dust and heat and sand. Once they were both in the rainy climate of England, it simply crumbled through their fingers.

“Me and Alex,” Bernie says, “we never thought of damage control.”

His mother loved Alex, Cameron knows, but – years ago – she also loved Serena. Whether she still does love Serena is another question entirely. The answer to which Cameron will have to try and find out another time. His phone beeps. Twice.

“Is that them?” Bernie asks.

Cam nods. “We have a . . . thing. We’re meeting up for . . . it’s just dinner, but . . .”

“Well, get a move on,” Bernie encourages.

Cam taps his phone on the table, nerves rattling through him. “What if . . . if I fuck it up?”

“Can’t know if you don’t try,” Bernie quips. “Go on. It’s just dinner.”

Cam pulls at his collar. “Just dinner,” he repeats and rises, pulling his coat of his chair. His face is ashen as he leaves. Like a man heading for death, not a date.

Bernie grabs her coat and runs out after him. Out of the warmth of the café and into a summer downpour. “Cam,” she calls through the rain. “What I said. Everything. Forget it. I was wrong.”

“Who are you and what have you done with – “

“One time thing, only, I assure you. But Cam don’t hesitate, don’t plan, don’t overthink. Just enjoy it.”

Cam smiles at his mum. Slides into the shelter of his car. Bernie watches him drive off, clutching the collar of her coat to her neck.

“Enjoy it,” she murmurs. “While it lasts.”

Cam hears his mother’s words ringing in his ears as he arrives as he pulls up at a restaurant. _Don’t plan. Don’t overthink._ Don’t make the same mistakes she did.

She regrets it, whatever happened with her and the woman in the photographs, how it ended. He has already begun to draw a timeline in his head of the last time the two probably met. Why Serena was asking Bernie to write. Why they went out for dinner. They were saying goodbye.

Bernie was leaving for the army. And she wasn't coming back.

-

Elinor is the last piece in the puzzle, Cam knows, when he meets for her the first time. He asks a lot of questions. Ascertains that the boarding school she went to was St Winifred’s, ascertains that her mother went before her like Bernie, ascertains that Elinor’s mother was head girl until there is absolutely no doubt in his mind.

Elinor and Charlotte become very quickly confused.

“What on earth Cam?” Charlotte asks. “Please don’t tell me you have a thing for older women?” Charlotte raises a palm to her forehead. “You do _not_ have the hots for Elinor’s mother.”

“No, no, no.” Cam assures, rapidly. “I mean I’m sure she’s a . . . fine woman, but God no.”

“How _do_ you know my mother?” Elinor’s forehead creases, perplexed.

“I . . .” Cameron shrugs. “Umm . . . I think . . . well . . . our mothers, they knew each other.”

“Really?” Charlotte and Elinor say in unison.

“Yep. They both went to the same school. Were in the same class. I think they even trained together as doctors.”

Cameron isn’t quite ready to potentially drop the bombshell on Elinor that he thinks her mum isn’t straight. And that their mums . . . well . . .

“I found some photos,” he explained, “of them together on the St Winifred’s website.” He doesn’t want to admit that he went snooping in his mum’s photo album and found – what looks like – a love note on the back of a polaroid. And it’s not a lie. Cameron did do a google to see if there was any matching evidence. He found the year photograph, the date and the list of names on the school’s website. “They were best friends.”

“What’s your mum called?” Elinor asks.

“Berenice Wolfe. It’s her maiden name. What your mum would have known her as.”

 “If they were so close, then why have I never heard of it before? Mum talks about her days at St Winifred but she’s never mentioned a Berenice Wolfe.”

“What about a Bernie?” Cameron suggests.

Elinor shakes her head.

“Are you sure?” Charlotte questions Cameron. “It’s a big coincidence. Us all meeting.”

“Not really. If they both lived in Holby as girls and still live near here as adults there was always a chance that their children would met.”

“Mum never talks about her school days.”

“We never ask mum about her schooldays,” Cameron adds. “And there’s a reason they’ve never mentioned each other.”

“Pray tell,” an irked Charlotte demands. She’s already tired of hearing about her mum’s ‘secret’ past. Her mum is good at keeping secrets, until she isn’t. She thinks that’s a well-established fact by now.

“I think . . . that there were . . . more than just friends.”

“You mean?” Elinor’s eyebrows shoot skywards. “You’re mum and my mum were?”

Cameron nods. “And I think my mum still loves her.”

Before Elinor can reply, Charlotte storms out the room.

-

“I’m sorry. I can’t handle this.” Serena paces her bedroom on the morning they’re due to fly to Italy. “I mean I haven’t seen or heard from Bernie Wolfe in 25 years and suddenly I’m jumping on a plane and –” Serena freezes, cigarette in hand. “I’m not mature enough for this.”

Serena pulls out a dress from her closet. Throws it on the bed. “If the woman didn’t drive me so crazy, I’d still . . .”

“Still what?” Raf asks tentatively, shifting from foot to foot in the corner of his boss’s bedroom. A place he has never seen before. He was practically dragged up the stairs after receiving Serena’s urgent text for help and dutifully appearing on her doorstep.

Serena’s hair is ruffled, presumably from trying on clothes from her wardrobe. A panicked effort of trying to decide what to pack for this absurd venture. Serena’s suitcase is open on her bed, but there are more clothes, shirts, scarves and dresses, on the bed and floor than in the suitcase.

“I mean look at me Raf,” Serena mumbles, cigarette in mouth. Raf didn’t know she smoked. Guesses she probably doesn’t. Serena gestures to the bombsite around her. “Have you ever seen me like this?” Serena whips around, back to her closet. “Don’t answer that.”

“I mean what if she doesn’t recognise me?” Serena rifles through her closet. “Don’t answer that either.”

From outside her mother’s bedroom door, hovering on the landing, Elinor sniggers. She for one has never seen her mother like this.

“So, Elinor’s says she’s a Major now in the army.” Serena’s voice turns as wistful as a lovesick schoolgirl’s. “She was always strong. Used to always lift me up, if you can imagine that.”

Elinor thinks now is as good a time as any to enter her mother’s room.

“Okay, I’m all set, mum.”

“Great. Me too.”

“Your suitcase is empty.” Elinor raises an eyebrow, a habit picked up from her mother.

“Yeah, right, sorry, erm . . . did you speak to Charlotte? Did she mention Bernie? How she is . . . with all this?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elinor lies. “She says Bernie’s really anxious to see you.”

“Anxious-nervous like she’s totally completely dreading it?” Serena questions. “Or anxious excited like she’s looking forward to it?”

Elinor hesitates. Only for a split-second, before grinning. “Oh, anxious-excited definitely. We’re all going to meet tomorrow at noon by the poolside.”

“My, my, my,” Serena laughs nervously. “That is incredibly soon. Well, why don’t you go and double check everything’s off in the house and I’ll finish up here.”

“Sure,” Elinor’s smile widens as she leaves the room.

“Oh, Raf,” Serena moves close to the man. “I have a rather ridiculous, somewhat childish request to make. Raf you know that you’re more than just my colleague, you’re a dear friend to me and I was wondering if – “

“I would accompany you,” Raf interrupts. “Make it a bit easier for you?”

“Oh, would you Raf. Thank you so much. I’d be so grateful and of course you don’t have to spend all the time with us, you’re free to enjoy the Amalfi coast – “

“Serena, it’s fine. To be honest, I could do a break from work.”

“You could now? Boss pushing you to hard, is she?”

“Serena, I never –”

“I’m kidding Raf.”

“Well, then, may I say, as a friend,” Raf turns to Serena’s closet and searches through it. “If I was meeting my ex after 25 years and I had your figure.” He pulls out a dark blue low-cut dress. “I’d wear this.”

Serena stares open-mouthed at her friend’s sudden enthusiasm for fashion. At his use of the term ex. She hadn’t told him she and Bernie were lovers, but she can hardly protest otherwise.

Raf sweeps a hand over the dress. “Just wait ‘til she sees you.”

-

Elinor finds Charlotte outside the homeless shelter, smoking a cigarette.

“You okay?”

“Define okay?”

“This is a shock for me too.”

“That your mum’s secretly a lezzo too?” Charlotte cringes at her own words. “Sorry, I . . .”

Elinor crosses her arms. For the first time, she finds herself disliking Charlotte. “Just because you’re angry, doesn’t mean you can –”

“I know, I’m sorry, but that’s the thing,” Elinor drops her cigarette to the floor, crushes it underfoot. “My mum cheated on my dad for years, lied repeatedly, but none of us can be angry. We’re not allowed to be. ‘Cause she’s gay.”

“Hell of a get out of jail for free card?”

“Quite.”

“Except it’s not. You can still be angry, but at least you know why she did what she did. My dad cheated on my mum for years – girl after girl after girl – and for no reason other than a pretty face turned his head.”

“Then you understand what’s it like. Why I can’t forgive her.”

“Your brother has. He told me that she’s trying, really trying. She wants to get to know you again.”

Charlotte scoffs. “That implies she knew me in the first place.”

“She’s your mum.”

“Maybe I never knew her either.” Charlotte’s voice quivers. She blinks back tears. Elinor moves close to her, wraps an arm loosely around Charlotte’s waist.

“My mum isn’t a lesbian,” Elinor says. “She’s bi. And when I found out, just under a year ago, I acted like it was the end of the world. I mean I was high as a kite at the time, but that was no excuse.” Elinor remembers snooping through her mum’s handbag for her purse. Remembers seeing the screen of her mother’s mobile light up and pulling that instead. Remembers holding it up in front of her mum’s face and demanding an explanation.

Why did she have a profile on a Sapphic dating app and who was Kate from Stepney?

The answer, of course, was simple. But, back then, Elinor wasn’t one for making things simple.

-

“But you were married to Dad for years? You’ve had boyfriends, I mean terrible ones, but still very much male. And now you’ve had some sort of mid-life crisis and decided to just switch sides?”

“I haven’t switched sides.”

“So, you were never straight? You were gay all along?”

“I was never straight no, but I wasn’t gay.”

“So, you just can’t pick a team?”

“And there was I thinking you would come back from university having picked up some liberal –”

“I think you’re being liberal enough for the both of us.”

“It’s really not rocket science, Elinor. I like both sexes.”

“Does Jason know?”

“Yes. He doesn’t have a problem with it, but I don’t see what’s he’s got to do with the price of bread.”

“Because you told him before me.”

“He worked it out first.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Elinor pivoted on foot, stomped out of her mother’s office.

“Elinor?” Serena marched after her. “Elinor Elizabeth Campbell!”

But Elinor didn’t look back as she carried to the hospital carpark and climbed in her car.  But she saw her mother’s face as she lost control of the wheel, saw Jason’s as he pushed Serena out the way, saw blackness.

-

“So, your mum kept it a secret too?” Charlotte asks Elinor.

“Not intentionally. She always knew she was bisexual, she just didn’t shout it from the rooftops. Can’t blame her. Everything I said to her, she said she’d heard before. Heard worse and not just from straight people. Nowadays, it’s not as bad as it must have been in the eighties, but I think it was harder for her, as she got older.”

“To come out?”

“To keep coming out.”

“I suppose mum must have felt like that too.” Elinor fumbles with her packet of cigarettes, debates another. “Although, before the divorce, I don’t think she was ever out of the closet.”

“She was with my mum.” Elinor can’t help but giggle.

“It’s really true?”

“Yep. Cameron’s worked it all out. They were . . . “ Elinor clasps a hand to her chest. “. . . _teenage sweethearts.”_

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Because, come on, it is a tiny bit cute.”

“ _Cute?_ You have so not met my mother.”

-

“Okay,” Cam rubs his hands together. Him, Charlotte, Elinor and Jason are all gathered in a pub. Introductions over, it’s time to get to business. “We need a way for them to meet.”

“What about the coffee shop you go to every week? I could take mum there at the same time. And just by chance they could bump into each other, lock eyes and stare longingly – ”

“You’ve watched too many romantic movies,” Jason tells Elinor. “Besides, you would have to make sure they were there at the exact same time. And even if they see each other, they might avoid each other. They’ve done that very well for the past 25 years.”

“Jason’s right,” Cameron agrees. “We need it so they can’t avoid each other. So, they must talk to each other. And for more than five seconds in a coffee shop.”

“So, we’re talking hours, not minutes?” Elinor says. “Maybe even days?”

“Why? What are you thinking?”

“They’ve done a pretty good job at avoiding each other in Holby, but what if it wasn’t Holby?”

“Somewhere abroad?”

“Exactly. Somewhere where the normal rules don’t apply.”

“Holidays can encourage a loosening of inhibitions,” Jason adds, remembering a documentary he watched about the Roman festival of Saturnalia, how traditional social conventions were upturned, how it was likened to a modern holiday abroad. “Ms Wolfe and Auntie Serena are more likely to have a greater sense of licentiousness, a greater willingness to engage in a relationship.”

“Like a holiday fling?” Cameron says. “Makes sense.”

“I’ve got it,” Elinor exclaims. “Italy.”

“Italy?”

“Mum’s always wanted to go. Last year we had to cancel a trip to the Amalfi coast. I know she wouldn’t say no if I brought it up again.”

“What was it? A hotel? Villa?”

“Spa.”

“That’s not mum’s type of thing,” Charlotte pipes up for the first time. “But . . . it is a good idea.”

“It would mean you’d have to go with her, on holiday,” Cameron explains. “I think me asking for a holiday of pampering and relaxing would only increase suspicion. Even if I would kill for a break from work.”

“Charlotte?” Elinor asks, sensing the girl’s uncertainty. “Would you? Would your mum go with you?”

Charlotte nods. “And I don’t think the spa thing would be a problem, not if I said I really wanted it.” Sold it as mother-daughter bonding, Charlotte thinks. Her mother has been trying to get back in touch with her for months. She doesn’t think getting her to agree to the holiday will be difficult. Finding out what to say on the aeroplane on the way there, however . . . Finding out how to bring the holiday up in the first place . . .

Charlotte folds a beer mat in half as she thinks. Three faces look at her expectantly. Hopefully. She is now the linchpin in the plan.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

“Great.” Cameron out his glass. Three others clink against it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Everyone chimes in, and Cameron grins, but there’s an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Can they actually do this? Will it actually work?

There’s a thousand uncertainties. The only thing Cameron knows for sure is that they are all going to be in a lot of trouble when their mothers finally meet.

-

She is in so much fucking trouble, Elinor thinks as she waits for her mum to exit the taxi outside the hotel in Italy.

“Other end, Serena,” Raf says, when Serena’s one of Serena’s legs pop out of the car door, instead of her hand for Raf to take. And he needs to. Needs to steady the other woman when she stumbles out of the taxi, heels in one hand, flung over her shoulder and a glassof whiskey in another. She tips it back, swallows.

“And,” Serena continues her drunken rant to Raf, “then she buggered off to Kiev, leaving me – a what am I  . . ?”

“Drunk,” Elinor supplies. “Very.”

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” Raf hooks an arm around Serena’s waist and gives Elinor a pained look. “They might have something behind the bar to help her sober up.”

“I am here,” Serena protests the use of third person.

“You certainly are,” Elinor mumbles under her breath through gritted teeth. And so is Bernie Wolfe. Charlotte texted her an hour ago that her and her mum had checked in. They’re probably now strolling around the hotel grounds, stretching their legs. And could walk into Serena, absolutely sozzled, any second. Oh God, Elinor panics, this is such a mess.

Luckily, her and Raf manage to guide Serena inside and to the bar. Elinor says she’ll take the suitcases up. She’s arranged for a quick meet up with Charlotte. Serena tells her that she can’t manage on her own. asks Raf to help her. Grows so suspicious when Elinor refuses that Elinor and Raf are forced to leave Serena alone, nursing a headache and cradling a glass of a vile-looking concoction that the bartender claimed worked miracles.

Serena finishes it quickly, squeezes her eyes shut at the taste and gulps it down.

The bar is too loud, too bright. She needs to lie down in her hotel room. So, even though Raf and Elinor had agreed to meet her back at the bar, Serena heads for the elevator.

It’s nearly full.

“Hold the lift!” Serena calls out.

-

“Mikey, stop fidgeting.”

“I gotta tie my shoelaces.”

“Can’t it wait? There’s no room to swing a cat in ‘ere,” Fletch tells his son. “Theo, don’t press those buttons. Theo!”

Mikey kneels to tie his laces just as Fletch lunges for Theo. Trips over. Bernie catches him just in time to prevent a disaster.

“Hold the lift!”

The first time Serena sees Bernie in 25 years, she sees her surrounded by four children. Bernie’s arms are wrapped tight around the waist of a young man.

Bernie looks up at the stranger who asked them to wait for her. Her mouth drops open. Before she can say anything, Theo presses a button. The elevator doors slide shut. Serena is left standing in the hotel lobby, lips tightening into a thin line as she realises two things.

1) Bernie Wolfe did not know about this reunion. Bernie Wolfe had no bloody clue.

2) Serena is going to _murder_ her daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Berena aren't the only gays on this holiday . . . oh . . . we all love a bit of Flaf, don't we?
> 
> Next chapter will focus more on Bernie and Charlotte and the trouble all their kids are neck-deep in. 
> 
> And Bernie and Serena will meet again for more than five seconds!

**Author's Note:**

> I am a slut for comments.


End file.
